Adventures of an Artificer: Bethroot Cadash
by thievinghippo
Summary: Stories, prompt fics and drabbles involving Bethroot Cadash, rogue. Blackwall/Cadash will be the focus, but others will show up occasionally.
1. A Root by Any Other Name

You're curious about the name, aren't you? Of course you are. If I had a galleon for every time someone asked me about my name I could buy my way into the noble caste in Orzammar and retire in style.

Here's the story. My mother got herself knocked up. No big deal, happens every day to casteless dwarves. Most women get rid of the baby or hope it's the right sex so they can move up in rank.

My mum? She decides having a kid is the best thing to ever happen to her. So much so that she decides she's not willing to risk having a baby in Orzammar and takes every copper she's ever earned and smuggles herself out. The gold wasn't enough, so she agreed to work for the Carta until her debts were paid off.

She's always had a knack for healing, so they sent her to work with an old apostate who patched up any of the poor fighters who somehow managed to make it back to base alive. But let me come back to that.

So she's in the Marches, and decides she wants to make things easy on her kid by giving her a human name. Maybe Mum thought it would make people like me more or I'd do better in trade, I don't know. And she's not around anymore for me to ask.

There was a trend when I was born, I guess, where women named their daughters after flowers and plants. So everywhere my mum looked there was a 'Rose' or a 'Lily' or a 'Poppy.' And my mum decides there and then that she wants to do the same with her brat.

Then one day, a kid comes into the warehouse. Little dwarven boy who the Carta used to run messages once in a while. No parents that anyone knows about. He's miserable and my mum realizes he's pretty damn sick.

The mage is nowhere to be found, so she does whatever she can think of to keep this kid alive until he's back. And one of the main things she does is mix the herb Bethroot with milk and makes him drink the whole damn thing.

A couple of hours later, the mage came back to the warehouse and did his magic, and the boy was right as rain. But the mage told my mum that she saved his life, that if she hadn't worked as hard as she did, he would have died.

Right chuffed my mum was, and two days later, she went into labor and had a daughter. A daughter who would have been branded casteless just like her mother if they hadn't left Orzammar.

She told me once that the moment they put me in her arms, she knew I couldn't have any other name. My namesake saved a life once. My mum hoped my name would inspire me to do the same.

For a while I was determined to prove her wrong, and I broke her heart, running with the Carta, not caring who got hurt as long as I got my gold. Took losing all I had worked for to realize I actually didn't have anything to lose but instead everything to gain.

And now the Inquisition is giving me a chance to finally make my mum proud.


	2. Follow the Leader

She looks exactly like he remembers.

Her face, the Herald's face, has haunted his dreams since the day he watched her die, three hundred and eighty-one days ago. The Herald is dead, of this is he sure, yet she stands in front of him, her blue eyes piercing his soul, and says it isn't so.

He wants to believe. He wants it so badly he bites his tongue to keep himself from reaching out and feeling her hand under his. She is not for the likes of _him_, he remembers this now, the taste of copper on his lips.

But then it's her hand that reaches out, fingers curled just so as she places her hand on his forearm. He twitches at her touch and jerks his arm away as she apologizes for not being there. Yet he would not have her here in this world, this world of red lyrium and lies, where nothing is real, not even time.

He is a champion, a protector, and Maker help him, he would protect her from this.

She keeps speaking and her voice is a balm, easing its way into his bones. His eyes close as he listens to what she is offering. The last year could be erased. Everything he has been forced to do in The Elder One's name as he hoped for escape, some way to make things right… And now she tells him he can go back, and this past year will never have existed. It doesn't seem possible, yet he hears the truth in her voice.

He chooses to believe. He trusts the Herald. Trusts her.

She will help him chisel away the worst parts of himself until only his true self remains.

_You are who you choose to follow._

He is _Blackwall_. Not Rainier.

And he is hers. She leads and he follows, off to battle the very essence of time itself.

#

He looks nothing like she remembers.

The man in front of her is broken. Certainly not the same one she called oddly charming only a few days ago. Red lyrium radiates from his skin and clouds his blue-grey eyes and for the first time since she fell out of the Fade she feels rage. Oh she had moments of anger before, but nothing like the coil of smoke slithering through her belly, demanding she make The Elder One pay.

Then find a safe place for her friend to rest.

But there is no time for rest as they find him armor to wear and a sword to wield. She is the one who discovers a shield and holds it up for him as if in offering. As he puts his forearm through the enarmes, she doesn't imagine how his shoulders straighten, like he's been given purpose again at last.

They fight through Redcliffe. Alexius is killed. The Elder one arrives.

Time. There's never enough in the end. Her heart constricts, realizing what they must do, what he must do. She meets his steady gaze and with one look, they promise each other the world. One breath and they've placed their lives in each other's hands.

And then he dies.

She wants to cry out as the demons pour through, bringing proof of his death. But as the magic cackles around her and she hears the familiar song of arrows being loosed, she finds her resolve and doesn't stray.

_There's a reason people have been following our Herald._

Less than a week has passed since he spoke those words to the Avvar. She had simply closed a passing rift, nothing special, she thought. But now another rift opens and she feels the power tingling in the palm of her hand, running down to the tips of her fingers.

Blackwall thinks she's someone worthy to follow.

And now she will show the world why.


	3. Offer Me

She sits in the ambassador's office, trying to concentrate on the paperwork in front of her. Instead her mind keeps wandering, remembering the evening prior, her certainty Blackwall would arrive in her quarters and her utter sense of relief when he finally did.

How could Josephine and Leliana expect her signature almost four dozen times over when all she wants to dwell on, is even with their difference in size, how perfectly her hips cradled his?

They didn't speak much this morning. Blackwall left early, concerned about her reputation if too many people saw him leaving her quarters. She wanted to tell him it didn't matter, she cares for him and will happily share that with the world, but worries he wants to be a secret instead.

A messenger enters as Bethroot stares at the parchment as she signs her name once again.

"Josephine, do you have a secret admirer?" Leliana says, her voice full of curiosity.

Bethroot looks up at that, and sees the messenger is carrying a small bouquet of flowers. But instead of Josephine, the messenger walks over to her and bows low. He hands her the flowers and says, "From the Warden, your Worship."

The flowers smell of spring and possibilities and as she buries her nose in them, she hears Josephine's delighted clap of her hands but misses the shadow that falls on Leliana's face.

#

She hasn't let an arrow loose in three days.

Bethroot skips down the stairs of the keep, feeling like a bird experiencing flight for the first time. She has two full hours of freedom before she needs to meet Cullen to discuss the troops, and she knows exactly what to do with them.

The training yard is packed today, full of both new recruits and veterans alike. The Grey Wardens staying at Skyhold are holding a clinic of sorts. Somewhere among them is Blackwall. She's been surprised he hasn't been more friendly towards the Grey Wardens, but supposes there's a reason he calls himself a loner.

Stopping outside the small room where she and her companions keep their gear at Skyhold, Bethroot stretches her arms high over her head, trying to dislodge the feeling of disuse. But then she steps inside and looks towards her things.

Her eyes narrow, seeing some sort of mark around the top of her favorite quiver. It's a simple quiver, leather over a wooden frame, with a wooden lip to keep the shape. She picks it up and realizes that it's not a mark at all, but words carved around the edge.

_Atrast nal tunsha_

"May you always find your way in the dark," Bethroot whispers, thinking how she taught Blackwall the dwarven phase a week ago, explaining how her mother would say that to her each time Bethroot left on Carta business.

She hugs the quiver to her close. "I have, Mam. I finally have."

#

Blackwall turns away, still in chains, and Bethroot tries to get her heart to stop stammering.

Too many people are staring, watching the spectacle she's created. If she could have only stayed in her damn chair, they could have had their first reconciliation in private.

But her eyes are on his back as a guard steps forward, ready to remove the cuffs. Within moments, it's done and Blackwall rubs his wrists, saying something to the guard she can't hear over the crowd.

She steps off the platform, not wanting to be elevated above anyone any longer. He walks up to her then, his face still open and raw. "I meant it," he says, leaning forward and kissing her brow. "Forever in your hands."

And he slips her the key that gave him his freedom.


	4. Scars

She should be sleeping.

Beside her, Blackwall is on his back, breathing slowly and evenly, as only those deep in slumber can. Bethroot is propped up on her side, her fingers lightly running over his chest.

It's only their second night together and her first chance to study him closely. Last night, between exhaustion from traveling back from the Storm Coast and nerves, hoping and wondering if Blackwall would say anything, she fell asleep almost immediately after their passions were spent.

He promised answers from their journey, but the trip only left her with more questions. The badge was key; she saw him take it out and stare at it more than once on the wagon ride back to Skyhold. But she could ponder the mystery later. Right now, she just wanted to look.

Even after sharing plenty of campsites and watching him spar and train over the past six months, Bethroot had never seen him without a shirt until last night. Her hand drifts lower, sliding over his belly, and curling her fingers through his soft chest hair. He's not as lean as some of the other humans she's seen shirtless; a few of her soldiers looked for any excuse not to wear a shirt. But he's plenty strong underneath it all, and that's all that matters.

A patchwork of scars decorate the right side of his torso, shoulder and arm included. She wonders the story behind them. She wonders how soon she'll have the right to ask and find out.

Blackwall jerks his head suddenly and makes a small noise which comes from the back of his throat. He shakes his head, eyes closed tight, and Bethroot holds her breath as she continues to lightly stroke his stomach.

He stills not long after and Bethroot lets out her breath, sure he's awake. She says nothing, in case she's wrong. He deserves his rest.

"That feels nice," Blackwall mutters, his eyes still closed.

Bethroot jerks her hand away, but he catches it and puts it back on his stomach. "I thought you were sleeping," she says, keeping her voice soft, not wanting to break the magic of her quarters, with the crackling fire and the autumn wind breezing through the open balcony doors, as she starts up the caress again.

"Were you watching me sleep?" he asks, brow furrowing slightly as he opens his eyes. There's a raspiness in his voice that makes her curl up to him closer. She nods and he raises a hand, dragging a knuckle across her cheek. "You need your rest, my lady. Don't waste your time staring at me."

"You were moving," Bethroot says, hearing the shyness in her voice. Why is this so hard to ask about? "Were… were you dreaming?"

A look she doesn't recognize crosses his face. After six months of friendship, she thought she had a handle on most of his moods. Not all of them, though. He's such a private man and offers so little about himself, not even his given name.

"I was."

She rests her chin on his chest and the words come out before she can stop herself. "What's it like?" she asks, more eagerly than she'd hope. "Dreaming?"

"Thought you dreamt once," Blackwall says, running his hand through her hair, "with Solas."

"True," she concedes, remembering the strangeness of being in Haven yet not being there. Even after all of Dagna's questions about the experience, she couldn't quite describe it. Perhaps dwarves just truly weren't meant to dream. "But I didn't realize it was a dream until I woke up."

A silence settles over them and Bethroot resigns herself to yet another question unanswered. There is so much she wants to learn about him, yet so much he won't say. She worries she'll start to fill in the empty spaces with ideas of her own. If she does, will he still be the man she cares for now or just a construct in her head?

He told her once, "it's what you do and how you do it that's important." But what happens if that's not enough? Everyone has a foundation of which their lives are built. The past shapes them all, like chisel against stone, even if one refuses to look back.

She knows from their previous conversations, she figures he's either a soldier turned criminal or criminal turned soldier. Deciding which tale she prefers isn't easy, so she'll wait until he lets something slip, handing her a clue which she weaves into the tapestry of everything she's learned.

Bethroot is an archer. Patience is key; she doesn't need to know everything at once as long as her target is getting closer to her mark. Someday she'll have her answers and for now, that's enough.

"Not all dreams are good, you know," he says, darkness clouding his voice.

"You had a nightmare?" she asks.

He nods and brings her hand up to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. It's so tempting to ask for more details, more something, more anything, just _more_. But she doesn't want to appear greedy.

"I'd meet you there in the Fade if I could," she says, an invitation if he'd like to talk more, as she leans forward and rests her hand on his shoulder, tracing the scars. Her lips brush his; she meant it to be more of a peck, for comfort, but Blackwall has different ideas.

He kisses her hard and deep, waking up every nerve in her body. But even as she lets herself be pushed onto her back, she's pleased with his sudden insistence not to speak. It tells her a story without words. Blackwall has handed her another thread for her tapestry.

He has more than just the scars on his body. And now she's most curious about the ones she cannot see.


End file.
